


Tear In My Heart

by jewboykahl



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Getting Together, High School, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Marijuana, One Shot, Pining, Rare Pairings, Sort of goth, Underage Drinking, Very Cheesy, idk what I'm doing this ship isn't even anything, oh well!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28951806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewboykahl/pseuds/jewboykahl
Summary: Michael and his friends travel slightly out of town to Tegridy Farms to buy weed off of Stan and stay longer than planned, giving him the opportunity to fall even harder for his beautiful, blonde crush, Bebe Stevens.
Relationships: Bebe Stevens/ Michael (South Park: Raisins), Stan Marsh/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	Tear In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ambercreek95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambercreek95/gifts), [thelotusflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelotusflower/gifts).



> because what work of mine is NOT due to the efforts of my good friends?? thank you for being the only ones to read this and ship absolutely ANYTHING with me!! this was honestly so fun to write and if anyone out there ships these two... you're welcome, I hope?

“This is the longest fucking drive of all time.” Pete bemoans, much resembling a toddler retrained in a car seat the way he leans forward in his seat. It is his turn to be in charge of the music, and he is quite proactive with choosing the perfect songs for the music que.

Michael glances down at Google Maps displayed on his cellphone to learn when they are due to arrive at Tegridy Farms. “We’ll be there in five minutes, calm down. You sound like that movie with Ice Cube.”

Pete rolls his eyes and peers over to Henrietta as she blows cigarette smoke out of a small crack in the window. “Why the hell couldn’t McCormick just give you the weed at school?”

She sighs, “I already told you, he got busted last year and now he doesn’t want to risk it. Plus, they have a whole _business_ thing with Cartman now.”

Michael chuckles at this—business is a strong word. Stan, Kenny, and Cartman began harvesting small amounts of Stan’s father’s marijuana and distributed it to their underage classmates. Cartman made it abundantly clear that it was his genius idea, and they were making a massive profit since the source was free. It has been a while since he bragged about it, though; Michael assumed that Kenny and Stan probably threatened to murder him or cut him out of the business if he did not become less of an ass about the whole thing.

While he quite liked Stan and Kenny, he could not begin to fathom how anyone could be friends with Eric Cartman. He could hardly endure the one class they shared.

Siri’s voice, mostly downed out by Depeche Mode blaring through his car speakers, instructs him to turn right into their destination. He finds the long, gravel driveway curtained by marijuana incredibly creepy at night, especially when imagining the souls of a hundred murdered cows haunting the property. And Randy Marsh with powerful farm equipment—perhaps an even scarier thought.

On pulling up to the farmhouse, passing several signs advertising the Tegridy business, a blazing bonfire comes into view in front of the two-story, red barn to the left. Several bodies become visible when Michael whips his car beside Cartman’s obnoxious Ford F-150. They all groan in unison when they realize they will have to unexpectedly deal with him—which means they will more than likely have to deal with that whole group.

Pete lifts his eye at the pair when they exchange looks. “Get in and get out, right? I don’t feel like spending a perfectly good Saturday night with a bunch of performative socialites.”

“I don’t know, this place is really creepy—I like it.” Henrietta jests, enjoying the dramatic eyeroll she earns from Pete and the nods of approval Michael grants her.

Michael truly never minds spending time with most of the group. Kenny is a wildcard but pretty funny and very kind, Stan is personable and easy to talk to about depression and sad music, Kyle remains a bit preachy and intense for his taste but not nearly as intense as when they were younger, and Bebe and Wendy were both sweet and friendly. Bebe he especially never minded seeing—as she is very easy on the eyes.

And she is very easy on the eyes tonight. The glow of the bonfire illuminates her smiling face, all of her thick, blond spirals pulled away from it in a high ponytail. She’s sitting cross-legged on a bench beside Kenny, black hoodie peaking out from a blanket she had wrapped herself up in. Michael only allows himself a few seconds to admire her before waving to Kenny.

“Well, hey there, my dark friends,” Kenny spouts, jumping to an upright position and digging into the pocket of his large jean jacket.

Just as predicted, the whole group is there. Wendy, Kyle, and Cartman have formed a semi-circle, too engaged in a heated debate about something that likely did not matter to notice the new arrivals. Stan is sat in a lawn chair beside Bebe, strumming an acoustic guitar absentmindedly, previously chatting with the blonde until they both cast their stares onto Michael and his friends.

Kenny pulls out a sandwich baggie containing pre-portioned marijuana. He grants them a lazy smile and flicks the bag, like a car salesman slapping the roof of a vehicle. His eyes are bloodshot like theirs soon will be. “A gram each is callin’ your name. You want anymore you’re gonna have to take it up with the cute pussy behind me that refused to let me steal anymore.”

Stan exclaims, “Fuck off, Kenny, my dad was _on his way to his tractor_! He would have totally busted us!”

Kenny rolls his eyes, but the fond smile on his lips makes Michael thing that Stan is right. “Anyways, this shit’s pretty fucking strong, so you’ll be fine.”

“We don’t all need 20 milligrams of special K on top of a gram of weed to feel a buzz, blondie.” Henrietta deadpans as she hands Kenny a wad of cash in exchange for the baggie.

“You wound me, Biggle,” Kenny sniffs teasingly, tucking the bills onto his breast pocket. “Pleasure doin’ business. You guys sticking around to smoke?”

“Hell no,” Pete snarks, burying his fists in his leather jacket, “We’re going to go to Waffle House. Michael gets the munchies like crazy.”

Michael scoffs in disagreement as Henrietta crosses her arm over her chest and adds, “Plus, we have to deal with you conformist jags at school all week long and I’m really not interested in a famous Kyle-Cartman fist-fight ruining my high.”

Kenny bobs his head, “Fair. But, if you stay and play some of that emo shit, I’ll share my alcohol haul with you. One-time only deal,”

He winks past the protests of being referred to as _emo_ and turns on his heels, backtracking to the bench where Bebe sits. Michael accidentally checks her out as Kenny pulls out a duffel back, the sound of glass clinking already solidifying his argument.

Michael turns to scrutinize his friend’s expressions. Henrietta is sold when Kenny presents his stolen bottle of Gentleman Jack’s—her and her father’s favorite. Pete reluctantly agrees to stay and mooch off of Kenny’s liquor stash only if they promise to get him food afterwards. Michael isn’t exactly sure why he stays, as drinking isn’t really his thing, but being the one to claim Kenny’s former seat besides Bebe definitely helps convince him.

“Well, Kenny told me you all were coming, but I didn’t think you’d stay,” Bebe addresses him with a sweet smile. From beside her he could see flames dancing in her crystal blue eyes, and the subtly makeup adorning her ridiculously gorgeous face.

His heart stalls. “Usually I only stay if it’s just Stan and Kenny. The sound of Kyle and Wendy screaming at Cartman only becomes more and more headache inducing as the night progresses.”

She giggles—it’s a musical sound. “Would you believe me if I said you get used to it?”

Michael cracks a smile, shakes his head, “Not even a little.”

Kenny’s generosity streak continues, and he rolls three joints for each of them. He chatters away the entire time he does so, which is a bit out of character for the generally quiet kid. Bebe must have noticed Michael’s confusion at Kenny’s behavior, as she leans in to whisper to him, “Kenny thought it would be fun to drink three Red Bulls before smoking Randy’s new sativa strain. He was seriously bouncing off the walls earlier.”

Michael chuckles soundlessly as he purses his lips around the weed-filled rello, cupping a hand over the flame from his skull-decorated lighter. He breaths in, allowing the strong smoke to burn his throat and fill his lungs. He makes a fist over his lips after releasing a line of smoke, stifling a cough. After he composes himself, he glances at Bebe again, wishing that sobriety would leave him and maintaining eye contact with her was easier.

He has had plenty of practice over the passed year, as they shared art classes together. They were both genuinely interested in the medium and somewhat bonded over it during class. During these times was when Michael first discovered that Bebe is a far cry away from the stuck-up, bitchy, hyper-sexual cheerleader he always assumed she was—he had learned to let stereotypes and assumptions not hold so much merit as he grew older. Now that it is senior year, social hierarchies seem extremely pointless up against the prospect of what the fuck he is going to do after graduation.

“I would judge Kenny for treating his body like a dumpster, but I can’t say anything—this isn’t even the first time I smoked today.” Michael confesses as he takes another drag.

Kenny easily overheard this comment and shoots him a glare from the ground beside his boyfriend. “I’m sorry, who’s diet consists of nothing but dark roast from _Tweek Bros_?”

“What?” Michael shoots back with squinted eyes and smoke in his lungs. He bites back the cloud for another moment before releasing it into the atmosphere and speaking more clearly, “It doesn’t have meth in it anymore, what’s the big deal?”

“Key word _anymore_ ,” Stan punctuates, twisting his guitar back into tune. “Still wouldn’t trust it.”

“Stan, play _Hong Kong Garden_ ,” Henrietta requests from a fold-away lawn chair that Kenny had set up for her beside the fire. She stares into it as she exhales smoke.

“What is he, your goth _Alexa_?” Pete snorts, flipping his two-toned fringe from his face.

Stan chuckles, “Goth _Alexa_ … If that means I get to play Siouxsie, I won’t complain.”

Expert fingers began plucking a chilling acoustic version of the requested song. Kenny shuts his eyes and grins, resting his head chin against Stan’s knee. Henrietta and Pete hum along as they smoke. Michael sweats over the way Bebe occasionally shifts and brushes their knees together.

He feels like he should say something to her since Kenny had interrupted their previous conversation. His mouth becomes even drier when he cannot think of anything and instead extends his hand to her, fingers pinching the half-smoked joint, “Want a hit?”

She grins at him, “Oh, that’s alright, thanks, though. Kenny got me a bottle of rosé and I’m not sharing.”

Kenny points a finger gun at her, causing another cute giggle to fall from her lips. It’s times like these that Michael understands why he used to hate her so much—puberty makes you pretty unequipped to handle the presence of pretty girls.

Michael cracks a small smile, “C’mon, wine and weed? Everyone knows that’s a great combination.”

“Right,” She laughs, and lets her enticing blue stare linger on Michael’s lips as he takes another long drag. Her tune changes, “Maybe I will share, since you’re sharing with me.”

With that, she pinches carefully pinches the non-lip portion of the rello and removes it from his hold. He watches in awe as she sets it between her full, pouty lips and takes in a long puff. Suddenly he’s jealous of the joint.

“Thanks,” she sighs, passing it back.

They share the remainder of the joint and he idolizes the way her eyes slowly gloss over. He waits patiently to speak to her again when she’s dragged into a conversation with Wendy and Kyle and he looks to his friends, who have begun singing softly to the various tunes Stan strums on his guitar. Kenny is passed out cold with his blond curls splayed against Stan’s thigh.

“Ready to go, B?” Wendy’s beckoning causes disappointment to burn in his chest. He watches the interaction out of the corner of his eye.

Bebe frowns, “I haven’t even gotten into my wine yet!”

Michael’s throat becomes tighter when she pushes the fuzzy, flannel blanket from her to reveal her legs, clad in black leggings that sculpt her incredible, thick thighs and wide hips immaculately. The influence of the weed does not allow him to take his eyes way, though he’s afraid of the physical reaction he is positive his black skinny jeans will do fuck all to contain discretely.

Wendy points a thumb over her shoulder, “Well, we’ve got Decathlon practice tomorrow, so we need to head home. You’re either coming or you’re staying here.”

Bebe weighs her options, shrugs, “I’ll just stay over. You know how Mr. Marsh feels about me—he won’t care.”

Kyle scrunches his nose at the comment. “Sick, dude.”

“Sick, but true,” Bebe says, reaching a hand out for her dark-haired friend. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow after?”

“Alright,” Wendy frowns, squeezing Bebe’s fingers before letting go and crossings her arms over her chest. “Wish me luck driving home with that assclown.”

“Ay! Don’t bitch about me or I won’t turn on the seat warmers!” Cartman protests, sauntering off toward his trunk with Kyle trailing beside him, giving him a shove that caused a chain reaction of follow-up pushes and slaps that only Wendy’s shrill voice extinguishes. Michael is grateful when the vehicle begins to peel away, gifting him more time to not many any moves with Bebe, but to admire her beauty and to fantasize about having a chance with her. 

Bebe bends over from where she sits into Kenny’s duffel bag of sin. She pulls out a large, textured bottle of cheap, pink alcohol and grants Michael a playful grin. “Ready to get wild?”

“As wild as you possibly can get drinking mom juice.” Michael snorts, amused as she uses both hands to tilt the bottle upwards. A dribble of wine escapes her lips and wets her hand, causing them to fall into a fit of laughter.

As he takes a drink, she asks him, “Have you started the portrait project yet?”

The goth boy lets out an ashamed sigh. “Nope. I can’t decide who to do.”

Their weekend homework is to create a rough sketch for a unit on portrait drawing. They were to use the model for a larger work, and Michael has been completely putting it off, unable to decide who his subject would be.

Bebe nods, “I’m doing Kenny. He basically begged me to _draw him like one of my French girls_ ,” she snorts, sloshing down another swig of wine, “I truly hate him.”

They both glance over at Kenny, who had now wrapped himself fully around Stan’s torso after the still conscious boy had slumped down to the ground to keep him warm. Bebe smiles. “They’re super fucking cute, though.”

Michael never had any particular feelings toward any of the couples in South Park, but he did have to admit it was strangely a relief when Stan and Kenny became exclusive; it had been painfully obvious that they were into each other since middle school—even when Kenny had a brief romantic endeavor with Henrietta, who was enthralled with his Mysterion persona.

“Maybe I’ll draw Stan, then,” Michael remarks, tilting his head in her direction. “We can sell it as a set.”

Bebe laughs, and Michael cannot stop staring at the small dimples that indent her cheeks when her lips stretch. “We’ll be the new yaoi girls. Though, I don’t think anything will ever be as popular as Tweek and Craig.”

“Damn,” Michael conceded with a hum, taking the wine bottle when Bebe passed it back to him. “Lost cause.”

“Truly,” she sighed facetiously, watching him throw back another drink. The bottle is already half gone. He can no longer feel his fingers. Bebe comments, “I’m sorry if you’re getting mouthfuls of my lip gloss. I just put it on before we started drinking.”

Truthfully, he had not noticed until she pointed it out. He licks his lips instinctually and detects a faint watermelon flavor. He loses feeling in his knees the same way his fingers gave out. It’s not exactly how he wants to find out what Bebe’s lips taste like, but he’ll take it.

Pete and Henrietta appear to both be tragically cross-faded when Michael finally takes a look over at them. They’re falling into one another laughing at something on Henrietta’s phone—her black lipstick is smeared around her mouth and Pete’s fringe has fallen completely in front of his face. Michael strangely does not feel completely inebriated and decides to quit while he’s ahead, riding out the rest of his buzz so he can effectively drive them all home soon.

Michael’s attention returns to Bebe like a magnet. He realizes he must have been looking away longer than he thought, as when he returns to the blonde beside him, she is taking Snapchats with her almost completely empty wine bottle.

“Mikey—Michael—can I call you Mikey?” Bebe slurs when she sees that his head had turned back to her.

Michael shrugs, smiles, “Sure.”

“Take a selfie with me, Mikey,” Bebe giggles and scoots closer, their sides pressing against one another’s. She raises her camera and holds down the circle at the bottom of her screen. Her camera’s flash makes him wince at first, but he swiftly becomes used to it. He lets a lazy smile glide across his lips, his eyes wandering to her profile as she begins speaking to her screen, “At Tegridy Farms with the goth squad tonight!” her slurred voice causes bubbles of laughter to escape his mouth while she zooms in on him, “Tell em what he just drank, Mikey,”

“A whole bottle of wine,” Michael informs Bebe’s followers. “Rosé, if we’re getting technical.”

“That’s righ’,” Bebe cackles, making pouty lips and a peace sign before ending the video and posting it onto her story. Directly after, she began a new one, this time leaning her back up against Michael’s arm and shoulder. He was grateful his cheeks were already tinged red from the alcohol and marijuana ingestion. She raised a finger and clumsily flipped his dangling, silver cross earing. “It’s a fuckin’ bonfire, too,”

She surges forward ungracefully and points his phone at the dying bonfire blazing before them, their only source of warmth against the chilly, early Colorado spring. A quick glance at the time shows that it is a half-hour past Michael’s curfew. His beautiful, blonde crush reclining against him made him quickly forget again.

As the pair sits there, Bebe becomes increasingly less giggly and begins spouting repeated complaints of a stomachache. Considering how much alcohol she had consumed—just from what he _personally_ witnessed—this does not surprise him. A sympathetic frown stretches his lips when she pushes herself upright and buries her face in her hands. Somewhat awkwardly, he raises a comforting hand to the space between her shoulder blades. “You okay?”

He knows it’s a dumb question, but he can’t think of anything else. Bebe Stevens ready to hurl into a campfire directly beside him is one thing that has never happened to him before out of all the strange things that have occurred growing up in South Park. His frown deepens when she shakes her head from side to side. It seems like the motion alone was a huge mistake.

She pushes her weight onto her feet and stalks a few yards away before the sound of painfully gagging resounds through the quiet of the pitch-dark night. Michael winces, widened brown eyes following her steps to the spot where she leans against the side of the barn for balance. He forces himself to turn away and grant her privacy. In the meantime, he stands up to assess his state of mind. He feels high still, but no more than usual. He is definitely okay to drive. He snaps his fingers in front of his friend’s faces, immediately obtaining their startled attention.

“Wha’d’ya want?” Henrietta slurs, causing Pete to burst out laughing.

“Let’s go, dorks,” Michael announces, before casting his gaze down to the snoozing Stan and Kenny. He nudges the blond boy’s jutted out leg with the toe of his combat boots. Kenny jolts back to life with a start, bloodshot eyes darting around in confusion. His movements quickly wake his boyfriend. “Get up and go inside.”

“Sir yes sir,” Kenny grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face.

Michael grants Bebe another moment and corrals his friends into the back seat of his vehicle. He finds her in the same spot, but her back is pressed to the red-painted wooden panels of the structure. She rolls her head to him, face completely void of color and eyes droopy. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she still managed to look after being crossfaded and puking her guts out. Michael grants her a small smile. “Better?”

“I guess anything is a step up from how I was feeling a second ago.” She quips, quickly followed by a regretful groan.

“Well, uh… I can take you home, if you would rather not stay here with…” He trails off and peers over to Stan and Kenny struggling to go vertical.

Bebe giggles softly, biting down on her bottom lip in a way that drove Michael crazy. “Would you?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammered, cleared his throat, “yeah, we live pretty close anyways, so… yeah.”

“Ugh, thank you, you’re such a life saver,” Bebe exclaims, enthusiasm mellowed by her ill state of being.

Perhaps absentmindedly so, she reaches out to her a hand around Michael’s bicep as they walk. For the first time in his entire life, he wishes there were some muscle there to make him seem stronger, more appealing to someone like Bebe. Clyde Donovan may be completely stupid, but Bebe had wanted him in the past—and his arms certainly didn’t feel like pool noodles.

He tries to clear these thoughts from his mind as he escorts her to the passengers seat of his vehicle, slightly amused when Henrietta had already passed out with her head against Pete’s shoulder. His fellow goth friend peers listlessly out of the window with half-hooded eyes.

Bebe slithers into the passenger’s seat with a shiver, wrapping her arms around herself. Before securing the door shut for her, he sheds his black, canvas jacket and leans down to drape it over her. He instantly recognizes the cheesiness of his instinctual chivalry and feels a pang of self-loathing. He shuts the door and traces into the driver’s side, staring up the car and slapping the stereo button off so that loud music does not disturb his sleeping and/or intoxicated friends. As he pulls out of the far and heads back into town, the forgets to put on GPS and prays he will recall the directions.

With every passing moment, it becomes increasingly difficult to take his eyes off of Bebe. She sits with one leg propped up to provide support for her arm and head to rest against. Her face is positioned in his direction, lips pouty and blonde curls escaping here and there from her scrunchie. The overwhelming desire to run his fingers through the loose ringlets and press his lips to against hers burns like a fire in his chest. He can’t escape his desires, as they are sitting beside him, jostling around on the poorly maintained country backroads. Michael begins driving deliberately more cautiously so that the goddess beside him remains undisturbed.

He drops off Pete and Henrietta first, both deciding to crash at the Biggle residence—a smart plan to hatch in their inebriated states, as Henrietta’s parents are massive pushovers when it comes to her acting out, and would definitely never say anything to someone who actually agreed to be her friend.

As Michael steers his car in the direction of Bebe’s home, she flutters her baby blues open and flashes him a sweet smile. “Thanks so much for taking me home, Mikey. You’re such a sweetheart.”

 _Mikey_ and _sweetheart_ are two things he is positive he would abhor being called if it was anyone but Bebe—but he thinks that even if she called him _assface_ he would love it. Anything coming from her sweet, sultry voice sounded infinitely better.

He swallows, “Anytime. Definitely don’t want to leave you for Pedo-stache to hit on in the morning.”

Bebe snorts at the nickname for Stan’s dad and forces herself upright. “I genuinely appreciate that.”

His mouth is completely dry when she raises her hands to tug out the scrunchie. Her lower-back length blonde waves cascade around her face and back, and the motion sends a whiff of her coconut shampoo Michael’s way. She readjusts his jacket over her torso and peers innocently out the windshield as if she has no clue that she’s pushing Michael completely over the edge.

When they roll up to the Stevens residence, he experiences a conflicting combination of relief and disappointment. She turns her head and grins widely at him. “This is me.”

“So it is,” Michael hums, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the compartment in his center console. He refrained from smoking with Bebe in the car, unsure of how she felt about cigarette smoke (though, she more than likely is completely used to it being friends with Kenny chain-smoker McCormick). He places the cigarette between his lips and flips his eyes to her. “I’ll see you at school.”

“Yeah,” she hums in agreement, eyes twinkling under the light of the streetlamps outside. She pulls Michael’s jacket from around her and drops it into his lap. “Thanks for everything, honey. I’ll see you then.”

With that, she pops the door to Michael’s vehicle ajar and makes her way up to her home. He watches in awe—definitely not checking out her ass—as her loose curls bounce with every step. He lights his cigarette in her driveway and is surprised when the burning sensation in his chest does not leave even when Bebe disappears into her garage.

He is in deep.

_

Later that night Michael finds himself unable to sleep. His head swims with thoughts of Bebe—the way her hair was tied back from her face, the way her long lashes batted, the curl of her perfect pink lips, and the breathtaking way the streetlamps and moonlight outlined her alluring profile as he drove her home. Usually thoughts of death, despair, and unrelenting doom kept his eyes from shutting in the dead of the night, but this is a drastic, and frankly pleasant change of pace.

He propels himself forward, and glances down at the iPhone plugged into a white charging chord. It is three in the morning and Bebe Stevens won’t leave his head. He finds it hard to believe that he allowed himself to fall for so hard for such an obvious candidate. Bebe was _the_ girl; beautiful, popular, blonde cheerleader that was interested in fashion and design and art. Michael thinks they would hardly even share any interests, considering his hobbies of playing heavy metal guitar, smoking cigarettes, and write dark poetry while Bebe hangs out with the quarterback and two valedictorian contenders. He still dresses head to toe in black clothing, and Bebe is all bright and frills. He is an alternative stain on society while she’s the kind of girl that makes your heart swell with pride.

Nonetheless, Michael finds himself wandering to his desk and pulling out a blank sheet of paper. As per usual, he allows inspiration to strike, and scrawls out a rough, realistic sketch of Bebe Stevens’s beautiful face.

_

The realism portrait project ends up taking nearly two months to finish. The major portion of the assignment is an 12x16’’ charcoal sketch of the chosen subject from the practice drawing. Each day Michael works with the most gorgeous subject he can think of and becomes even more familiar with and fixated on Bebe’s face. Every few minutes he peers up at her and just stares—desperate to depict every detail immaculately. How he is not caught in the act is absolutely beyond him, especially considering he is not exactly subtle about his drawing or the staring.

They talk more as well. Ever since he drove her home, she goes out of her way to at least ask how he is doing. One day she even kept him company during lunch while he snuck out to smoke a cigarette. It was the best lunch he had ever had and he did not even eat anything.

It is time to turn their portraits over to their teacher for final grades and Michael is extremely nervous to do so. He was completely unaware that an actual photograph of their chosen subject would need to be submitted so that she can compare the two when grading. So, he sits in his assigned stool, shaking his leg nervously and discretely clutching a selfie of Bebe’s that he printed off of her Facebook page (which he had to _make_ a Facebook page obtain, because Facebook is for lonely millennials and conservative grandmothers).

“Hey, Mikey,” Bebe greets with that candy-sweet smile. Her hair is pulled back into a half-up-half-down style, and he can detect the sugary scent of her perfume already.

“Hey,” he returns with a slight grin, stomach churning when she approaches his completed sketch. It is not like it is the greatest work of art of all time, but he is fairly certain that the subject depicted is obvious—and would especially be obvious to the woman whom the face belonged to. “You ready for this project to be over?”

“Most definitely,” Bebe sighs. “I’m tired of my fingers being covered in soot.”

Michael snorts and nods his head in agreement, attempting to find a way to nonchalantly cover up his sketch. Of course, this had the reverse affect, and draws attention to his piece that he is awkwardly floating his leather jacket-clad arms over. His crush on Bebe has definitely made him dumber and softened his edges—which explains Clyde Donovan’s entire existence.

“Who did you do?” the blonde inquires, claiming the vacant stool beside him. Her blue eyes flutter between his sketch and his face, causing butterflies and fear to wrestle for dominance in his stomach.

Michael’s eyes widen at the depiction of Bebe’s face he spent weeks crafting and racks his brain for any female celebrity or historical figure that he would possibly pass her off as. “It’s uh… Zooey Deschanel…”

Bebe lifts a quizzical eyebrow, “Really? I didn’t know you liked her.”

He does not. He saw two episodes of _New Girl_ and wished he could erase them from his memory. Shrugging, he perpetuates the charade, “Yep. I like… quirky girls…” It pains him to say that, and it is not even _necessary_ , he is just _panicking_.

“Really?” she repeats, lips pursed, “You like _quirky_ girls?”

Michael nods wordlessly. She laughs in a way that lets him know she does not believe him, but he takes his opportunity to shift the subject, “How did McCormick’s face turn out?”

Bebe looks up and away. “Oh, I ended up doing someone else…”

“Oh,” Michael nods, “who is it?”

“Good afternoon, my loves,” their art teacher spouts after the loud chime of the bell indicating the beginning of the period sounds.

“Good afternoon,” Bebe and Michael drone in unison. She heads back to her assigned seat a few tables away and grants him a wink on the way. He cannot hold back his smile. 

The class period takes forever to finally come to an end, and Michael is so goddamn close to not being found out. All he has to do is set his drawing out on the table with his inspiration photograph attached. He has managed to discretely staple it to the bottom of his drawing, but his throat is still extremely dry at the prospect of anyone discovering their fellow classmate’s Facebook profile picture attached to his work. After successfully leaving the drawing behind on a table after class, he lets out a breath of relief. He is still mortified at the thought of his teacher finding out about him drawing Bebe, but that is far more manageable that Bebe or any of their conformist peers discovering his completely cliché and possibly creepy secret.

When he turns, Bebe is standing on the other side of the room, carefully arranging her sketch and tucking her photograph beneath it the same way he had. This piques his curiosity. He takes a few strides towards her and senses discomfort when she notices him coming closer. He pauses and asks, “You okay?”

“Huh?” She replies loudly before shaking her head. “Uh, yeah, I’m… yeah!”

Michael grins and walks the rest of the way. She still seems off when he finishes approaching. The color has drained from her face. He realizes why when his stare falls onto her sketch, which depicts a familiar face.

Bebe’s talent astonishes as he scans the realistic rendering of his own face against her page. The details which confirm the subject’s identity are the dark curls cascading upward to mimic his hair’s unique, unruly style, and his dangling, cross earing. The sketch outlines his profile, granting him a generously sharp jawline and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His heart thumps obnoxiously in his ribcage.

“Uh… so, I drew you…” Bebe reveals with a nervous giggle. Michael tears his gaze away from the drawing to watch her push a piece of golden hair behind her ears. “Sorry if that’s… really fucking weird,”

Michael shakes his head, “Are you kidding? That’s… Bebe, I did the exact same thing, so if you’re weird, I’m weird,”

Bebe pinches her eyebrows together, “I thought you did—”

“Drawing Zooey Deschanel definitely never crossed my mind,” he assures with a chuckle. He wets his lips and feels his heart melt at the way her pretty blue eyes stare expectantly. “I drew you,”

She lets out a soft sigh of relief and bustles back over to Michael’s sketch. He follows her and takes a look at his own work, feeling his cheeks brighten as she looks it over and eventually flips the paper up to determine what photograph he chose. “Did you take this from Facebook?”

“Yeah…” he admits sheepishly.

She scrunches her nose at him, feigning for anger, “And you didn’t friend request me?!”

Michael huffs, “I will never use that insane-people website. I don’t like cat memes or middle aged women that sell essential oils.”

“Fair,” she giggles. She lays the sketch flat again and turns her attention to him. The expression she wears he has received quite a bit, but there is a twinkle in her eye that seems new—significant. The pair merely gaze at one another dumbly for a moment before the next class begins to file into the room. They take it as their cue to leave and dash out into the hallway. They remain awkwardly in one another’s presence, both giddy and unsure of what to say. Bebe starts, “I took my own picture of you.”

The confession is unexpected, but in a way unsurprising. Bebe is constantly snapping pictures to put on her various platform’s _stories_ —including Michael almost every time they hang out or interact. He assumes it is one of these.

She proves him wrong again when continuing to explain, “I thought you looked really cute that one day I came outside to talk to you while you smoked… I decided I would have a lot easier time drawing and thinking about your face than Kenny’s.”

It is an unusual way of hearing that your crush finds you attractive, but he will take it—he would take anything Bebe gives him. Though his chest is struggling to contain his beating heart, he lets himself gush in return, “I just think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and I couldn’t get you out of my head so… I just drew you.”

Bebe’s intentional, make-up blush darkens. She perks her head to the side, grinning up at him, “I thought you were into quirky girls.”

Michael smirks, shrugs. “Only if you’re quirky.”

They linger there for a moment, both still slowly processing the implications of their mutual decisions to draw one another and the exchange of compliments of on another’s face. Michael is unsure what it all means, but he is dying to find out. The sound of the bell brings them back to reality, and with wide eyes, Bebe huffs, “Damn it, this is the second time I’ve been late to that stupid class this week.”

Michael blurts out a suggestion. “Let’s just skip it, then.”

The blonde’s pink lips curl into a mischievous grin. “Really?”

“Please,” Michael requests. “I really don’t want to endure two more pointless classes full of posers that aren’t you.”

“Thank you for that very _goth_ compliment,” she chuckles and outstretches her hand. Michael eagerly accepts and laces their hands together. It feels like puzzle pieces finally coming together to complete the full, wonderful picture. They tactfully sneak out of the school through a neglected side door and head to the parking lot. Michael pulls his keys out of the pocket of his black chinos, his other hand still grasping Bebe’s. “where are we going?”

Michael wanders his stare down to her’s. It all feels like an absolute whirlwind. Just a half hour ago Bebe was an unachievable goddess that was destined to marry some giant, talented jock and have three gorgeous, blonde babies and live in a Denver, middle-class mansion. Now he has no idea what the future holds since she is for some reason into him as well.

Michael shrugs his shoulders. “Wherever you want.”

The blonde hums as the cross through the small student parking lot toward Michael’s vehicle. When she comes to her decision, she simpers up at him, “Tweek Bros? For the dark roast?”

A pleased smile breaks out across his face. He nods. “Sounds perfect. We’ll go to Starbucks for our next date to be fair.”

“Oh, so this is a date?” Bebe questions as she traces around his car to the passenger’s side.

Brown eyes wide and fixed on her, he returns carefully, “I mean… it can be?”

“I’d like that.” She concludes.

And just like that, Bebe Stevens is back in the passenger's seat of his car, enjoying music and a dialogue with him. If you had told his even more nihilistic past self that he would be cutting class with and openly flirting with her, and that she was his potential new girlfriend, he would have dramatically rejected this notion. Knowing now what it is like for someone like Bebe to come around and show him what it feels like for your heart to beat out of your chest, he would never turn his nose up at the idea of them. 


End file.
